Days of Remembrance
by gotgoats
Summary: Gibbs' spends some time preparing to honor his brothers and sisters in arms.


Disclaimer : Don't own NCIS. If I did, Tony'd be treated MUCH better, Tim and Ziva would be reassigned to Antarctica or dead, and there'd be a lot more Papa Gibbs.

Note: Thanks to all of our veterans! Happy Birthday, Marine Corps! What a weekend! I forgot when I wrote this, that while it's Veterans Day here, it's also Remembrance Day for our friends in the UK. So blessings to all those will be be honored, who will honor, and who are serving us still!

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Gibbs ran his varnished cloth down the length of the case he was building. Days like this were hard. Days like this reminded him of why he'd learned wood-working in the first place.

He'd not learned simply to build boats, like most people assumed. He'd not learned so he could spend time out in the workshop, and not with his dad, like others had assumed. He'd learned so he could take a small case, like the one he built now, to his fourth grade teacher.

Her husband had been an explosives expert in the Army. He had a dangerous job, yet both he and his wife agreed that his job was important. His job helped to ensure the freedom of the country they loved.

Training accidents were rare, but they happened. They still do. No matter how safe and educational you try to make it, sometimes things just go wrong. And that happened one day for him.

Luck ran out, if you believe in luck. Young Leroy had seen the man several times when he'd come to pick his wife up after work, and that was when he fell in love with the uniform of a soldier. When they studied the military in Social Studies, the man had come in with several of his friends, and the men had spoken to the children about the military, and how each branch was vital to the freedom of our nation.

And then came the day Mrs. Miller was called out of class. She'd come back, tears streaming from her eyes as she gathered her purse and asked "her" children to behave for the substitute teacher they'd have for the next few weeks.

Confusion had reigned in their minds, but the kids loved Mrs. Miller. They'd do anything she asked, including being nice to Mr. Evans, even though he smelled like old mayonnaise.

It wasn't until that night that he learned what had happened. His dad sat him down, and explained how there had been an accident on Mr. Miller's base. Someone made a mistake, and dynamite blew up.

Leroy listened with tears running down his face as he understood what his dad was trying to tell him. Mr. Miller, who liked to be called Sgt. Miller, had died in the accident. Jackson had held his son that night, letting the boy cry, just as he had only a few months earlier when his mother had died.

"What can I do?" Leroy turned innocent eyes to his father. "Can I help her feel better somehow? Maybe we can make her pies and dinners, like people did for us? It didn't make us feel better, but we didn't feel alone. Can we?"

"Well, you know I'm not good at cooking, but I do know of something else we can do."

"What?"

Jackson began to explain military funerals to his son. He explained how a flag would be draped over Mr. Miller's casket, and how Mrs. Miller would be given the flag after it was folded by soldiers who would carry his casket. Jackson explained taps, and what it meant, and how a bagpipe player would walk away from the graveside while playing Amazing Grace, to give a final farewell to a fallen soldier.

"We can help with some of that?" Leroy's eyes were wide with wonder. His mom's funeral hadn't been anything like that at all.

"No, but we can make her a special box to put her husband's flag in." He smiled gently down at his son. "We can make her a special box that she can keep his flag safe in, so it never gets hurt."

"What do those look like? Can we make it today? When should we give it to her?"  
Jackson smiled, and told his son that they could go buy some wood, and that they could start working on it the next day. True to his word, Jackson had Leroy in their truck as they headed to the lumber yard only minutes later.

For the next two weeks, Jackson taught Leroy how to make the wood feel soft to the touch, and how to notch the ends so it would fit together seamlessly. Jackson taught Leroy how to use boiled linseed oil and tongue oil to make it water-proof and lengthen the life of the box. When the boy was satisfied with it, Jackson showed him how to set the triangular glass in the frame, and to gently seal it with glue and nails so that the glass wouldn't slip.

When the triangular case was finished, Jackson and Leroy drove to Mrs. Miller's house just after supper. The man's funeral had been well over a week ago, and many of her visitors and family members had returned to their own homes, leaving her alone. The Gibbs' men knew first-hand how lonely those first days were.

The company was gone. The house was quiet. Little reminders of the one so recently lost sitting everywhere. A favorite coffee cup that sat unused on the shelf. Laundry in the closets that still belonged there, though the person would never put them on again. Pillows that still smelled of aftershave, and a razor on the bathroom sink.

Today was a good day for a visit. Not because she'd remember them more, or because their gift would stand out. Today was a good day for a visit, because today was the first day that others began to forget. Lives continued, and that's how it's supposed to be. But it's hard to be the one left to forge a new life while others go on with theirs. Sometimes, it's hard to figure out where to start. Simply having someone show up and say "I remember" helps. Today was that day.

With a heavy sigh, Gibbs realized that today was that day once more.

He wasn't in the fourth grade anymore, and Mrs. Miller had remarried and moved away several years ago. He himself had grown up, and had joined the military, losing many of his friends and brothers in battles; sometimes, the battles were waged on foreign soil, and sometimes, the battles had been waged in their minds years later. No matter the cause, they'd been lost to the battles they'd fought.

This case wasn't for Mrs. Miller, though part of him wished he could go back in time and present her with a better version of his first wood-working attempt. This was for a young man who lived only four houses away. He'd received news that his wife had been killed in action in Afghanistan. Her body was being flown back, and would be arriving later in the morning, along with others who had fallen in their service.

Her funeral would be held the following morning, and Gibbs had seen car after car pull up to the house as relatives and friends poured into the young family's house. It was a mixed blessing that their children wouldn't remember this day. They were too young yet.

Pictures would be their memory of her. At only 18 months, the twins weren't understanding how their lives were changing. Gibbs heaved a heavy sigh, wishing he could do more for them.

The box he held in his hands seemed a trite, useless memento at the moment. This was wood, glue, and glass. Sometimes, he felt guilty for thinking he could help a family with something this small. At other times, he remembered how he'd felt seeing Mrs. Miller's trembling hands as she placed her husband's flag carefully into its new case.

He wished he understood life. Why did someone like Marci die in combat, while he lived? Why had Sgt. Miller died in an accident? With a sigh, he realized it was not his question to ask.

"Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do or die…" Those words, written by Alfred Lord Tennyson, and quoted by Sgt. Miller that day in the fourth grade played once more in his mind.

The case was now complete, and would sit untouched on its soft cloth until everyone else had left.

The case would wait, as he would wait. They would bide their time silently, watching the noise and confusion only houses away. They would bide their time, knowing that soon, it would be time to make their presence known.

"I'm here. I remember."

Gibbs trotted up the stairs, washing his hands of the dust and varnish and glue. There was one more thing he needed to do, and then his day would be complete. He dressed in his finest, ensuring that his uniform was spotless. He didn't often dress in uniform anymore, but this day was one that called for it.

The Marine Corps was celebrating yet another birthday, and all veterans were being honored with their own holiday. Some were forgotten, and some made their presence known. He simply wished to honor those fallen. Gibbs didn't consider himself a veteran yet. He was still with NCIS, and while he was a civie again, he still served. Today was a day for others.

His shoes were polished, his uniform spotless, and his sword hung at his side, perfectly settled as it should be against his hip. His cover was held under his arm as he finished a few small tasks in his house, for it wouldn't do to put it down. A Marine in uniform is always in uniform. Marine Proud, as it should be.

With quick steps, he left his home, walking proudly to his car. The drive wasn't far, but it was worth it, as it was every year.

He had the same six dozen poppies ordered as he'd done for the last ten years, and as he stopped to pick them up, the young florist flirted with him. He simply smiled and joked back, just as he did every year.

All too often, he forgot others. He forgot his brothers and sisters in arms. Today was a day he was grateful for.

There was a time when poppies were worn or given only at Memorial Day, to remember those fallen. But times had changed. They were given at Veterans Day, also, to remind people of those who had served, protecting freedom.

It was to those who had served that he came today.

He strode into the Washington DC Veterans Center Home, carrying with him boxes of poppies. The nurses here knew him well, and almost dreaded the day he'd come to live with them, if he ever did. Not because he was cruel, but because he'd not bring happiness to others if he did.

With the help of a young volunteer, he began to make his rounds, visiting often-forgotten people. He left poppies with them to brighten their rooms, or perhaps, if they were lucky, to send home with a grand-child or friend.

Each poppy spoke, just like the case in his basement did. "I'm here, and I've not forgotten."


End file.
